Category: Humour

No Show

Cooking challenges
are not for me –
inviting self-assured guests
to partake in my over-sized
oven-ready breasts –
show time!

Why should I
care about competition;
agree to act fancy,
ground myself down
with expectations?
I’d be afraid

my dependents
would run out from behind
my wings and topple
the repast before
it’s served up, along with
my reputation.

I have ample
bosom, but that doesn’t
mean I like to cook –
reservations are my specialty –
especially when fare tasters
speak Foodie

What kind of language
is that? Really?
I accept that I somehow
missed the gourmet gene,
that my home is not a
culniary castle;

would love to belong
to the fit and healthy
but renewal for me
is a place to lie my head,
having fun
horizontal.

(Image found on:  gameofdiapers.com)

Dog Days

I’m the kind of hound that sniffs
out trouble; waddles through
roses to bury my nose
in excrement and roll in it.

Or is it that betrayal hounds me,
lures me with puppy dog eyes
tail wagging promises of loyalty
tricking my sentimental heart?

More like I’m the mutt begging
for scraps, ear scratching, or
belly rubbings, a canine whore
slutting for any attention.

Failure is a four-legged mangy
beast that caught my scent
long ago, trailed me, whining;
why did I agree to feed it?

No show dog here, just mixed
breed, scrap yard variety mongrel,
digging through the garbage heap
trying to find a dang old bone.

Crocodile Dreams

How are we to sleep
with this croc in our bed?

Who will protect whom?
Your meaty limbs surely

more appealing morsel;
assert your masculinity

will you dear?  I’ll just
curl up in the corner –

pretend I hadn’t noticed.
Oh but what if he’s hungry,

and takes a bite out of
your leg, making a mess

and I’ll have to clean up and care
for you? That’s not acceptable!

I’ll just hoist this critter out
of here, put him in the hall

shut the door – crocodiles
can’t turn knobs can they?

But oh, what about the kids,
do you think he’ll find them?

How are they to sleep with
a crocodile in their beds?

And what kind of legacy
is that to leave the children?

 

Me Want Cookie!

Cravings, no better than a
tower-sized Cookie Monster,
prowl, growl, stampede –
threatening my very core.

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

I flee, take shelter in forests
of broccoli, stalks of celery,
hope this infantile impulse
will pass by, forgotten; then –

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

I will drown the inclination
in a shower of water, cleanse
my mind of such sinful desire,
nourish myself with liquid –

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

No amount of rationality
appeases the ravenous
creature, fists balled tight
in a childish fit of conviction

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

I am losing ground, tension
building – raise the alarm –
run for shelter – the key is
to remain inconspicuous –

Give me sugar!
Me want cookie!

Close the door! Do it quickly,
if no one sees, it doesn’t count –
just one will do it, maybe two –
try not to leave any crumbs.

Me got sugar!
Me had cookie!

I collapse into a puddle of guilt,
self-loathing, disappointment,
while the inner muppet smiles
tummy momentarily satisfied.

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Calm Yourself, Woman

Circumstances shift –
breath the fertile air –
let dreams fly, expand,

embrace change – hope
now winged, an explorer
bursting with possibility.

I would move this old
body, relocate to new
beginnings, be reborn

but for these internal
trappings – begging for
extermination – retro

shaded memories –
long past expiration –
skewed accessibilty,

stretched without purpose,
reconfiguration required –
history a real estate, I need

to unload; who will buy
a drama-laden, single
story alcoholic’s haunt?

Circumstances shift –
sniff the fertile air –
guard forbidden dreams

change, like wings, unfolds
in its own time; be patient,
possibility is taking flight.

(Image from: vijaycool.wordpress.com)

Need A Road To Follow

Heading somewhere,
chauffeur unreliable –
treacherously absent
direction – any road

would be better than
these curb-hopping,
tendencies, head-on
into snowy banks –

Common sense –
usually a stabilizer –
is off duty, lacking
appropriate attire,

his willowy, tree-like
composure relaxed;
nonchalantly shrugs
off the current drama.

It’s not that I don’t
have dreams – have
birthed projects –
lack the stature to

move beyond the
laneway, ambition –
reduced by concern –
imagining catastrophe

death by recklessness,
or worse, attacked by
loyalty – vicious end
to a goal-less journey.

The Character of Old Houses

Old houses exude charm,
walls whispering nostalgic
wonder, eliciting yearnings
buried deep within the soul.

Purchasers are spellbound,
transported to simpler times,
read mystical forecasts in
archways and carved nooks.

Committed, they settle in,
noting too late cosmetic
fixes, startled to uncover
structural faults, despair

to learn that the dreams
which built this place have
now crumbled and cracked,
repairs needed extensive.

Overhauling beyond means –
physically and financially –
old houses not only offer,
but test, character – beware.

(Image from thisoldhouse.com)

If I Were a Kitchen

If I were a kitchen, I’d want
an old-fashioned woman
at my counters, rolling dough,
canning – pickles, chutney, jam –
homemade pasta sauce, and
every Sunday a roast. She’d
wear her sweat like a saint,
ignore her aching back, one
practiced hand feeding her
Carnation baby, while other
children flocked to Formica,
hot flesh sticking to vinyl,
as they picked at fresh made
sweet buns, the pot on the
stove perpetually simmering.

Or give me modern efficiency –
ninjas and presses, air fryers,
and induction cookers – let the
children belly up to the breakfast
bar, chomp on veggies and humus,
while Mom totes baby in a sling,
and preps her bone broth, strains
of Baby Einstein emitting from
a propped up iPad, while a cellphone
vibrates on granite and the Keurig
spits out one more Starbucks Pike .

Just don’t abandon me, piles
of unopened mail, or tossed
aside receipts company for
coffee rings on my counters.
Please don’t litter my surfaces
with rotting takeout containers,
or dishes caked with process
cheese residue, leave my
stainless steel sinks stained,
spoiled food reeking in the
refrigerator, traces of late night
mishaps curdling on the floor;
the absence of familial sounds
declaring my presence invalid.

Love, Like Shoes

If searching for love
was like shopping for shoes,
I’d fixate on the simplest
of finds, choosing practicality
over fashion flair.

My preference is for earthy,
unassuming, plain is fine
as long as the structure
gives me room to breath –
no grasping too tight.

If I shopped for love,
like I do for shoes,
I’d ignore those pushy
sales lines, opt instead
for a supportive sole,

settle for guaranteed comfort
over flashy heels, can’t bear
the instability of pedestals,
love flattery like most,
but need to feel grounded.

No doubt I’d question
my selection, offer it up
to my children for feedback
be mocked, dissuaded,
put it back and search anew,

discover futility in my seeking,
realize that I need new love
like I need new shoes –
only a foolish indulgence
for a woman who lives in bed.

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Choices

“Come live with us”, Mother suggests
in her there’s-nothing-we-can’t-handle
tone of voice.  Father lowers paper,
raises eyebrows, stern blue eyes
flashing over spectacle rims, says
nothing.  Am I supposed to interpret
concordance or contradiction?

“But you live in a box!  Where would
I sleep?”  “More of a rectangle.”
I contemplate room dividers, imagine
claiming a corner of the room.

Or I can move in with the man-child,
learn to tolerate delusions, listen
to incessant rants of how he’s been
wronged, content myself with
picking up after endless trails of
discards – same four-walled
containment, different cohabitant.

But wait!  “Where’s the plumbing?”
How does one discreetly manage
personal excrement in a one-roomed
existence?  I startle; awaken.

No plumbing needed here;
I’ve received an invitation
from the grave!

Sometimes life gives us choices;
no guarantee either will be palatable.

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